


Heart of Oceans

by iniquiticity



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Freeform Fantasy, Ambiguous Relationships, Breathing Exercises, M/M, Men Bad at Feelings, Posted Drafts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-31 16:08:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6476947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iniquiticity/pseuds/iniquiticity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was much too busy with the tangle of his own thoughts, and the unavoidable sense of losing, to believe in warrior-monks. </p><p>(A fantasy experiment where George Washington is an ascetic and Lafayette has feelings.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heart of Oceans

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write some warrior-monk George Washington, so here we are. This is an intentionally unfinished draft. Your constructive comments and feedback are welcome in the comments.
> 
> The incredible @anna_unfolding got this off the ground. The lovely and charming collection of poose, ji, triedunture & troy also assisted in creating it. Thanks guys!
> 
> I can always be reached on [twitter at @picklesnake](https://twitter.com/picklesnake), and on [tumblr at iniquiticity](http://iniquiticity.tumblr.com/).

It is a thing to note, of course, that men often end up in desperate straits, and in those straits will believe desperate stories they heard as children despite their ridiculousness. The men in question, in this case, were war-generals, and they were in a war of which they were decidedly losing (in many ways they were responsible for this, although of course they would deny this endlessly), and as a result, they had become desperate. 

These desperate men had heard ridiculous children’s stories of a monastery in a rolling field, and in this monastery were monks that, rather than worshipping some noble and benevolent god, worshipped the spirit of war. These “war-monks” of legend were brilliant philosophers and strategists, and brought victory to any side that they worked with. The monks in this story were bloodthirsty and monstrous, and so much so that they had sealed themselves away from peacetime people, because they could not contain their urges. If these monks were around other men and could not strategize their deaths, or coordinate vast armies, or bring horrible murder upon their enemies, they would not be able to manage themselves. They could turn, like a dog, and strike a man who had done nothing. 

(Like many childhood stories, this one was contradictory and insensible; like many desperate men, these generals believed it anyway.) 

The men sent a letter to the monastery, praying that they could be assisted by the monsters that inhabited it, for they were desperate. 

There was no response for a long time, and the men continued to lose the war.

Then, one day, a very large man upon a very large horse with a large supply pack came to the army camp. The man wore a thick leather cloak over his form, with a hood pulled low over his face. The man brushed off calls to identify himself and threats that he would be shot if he did not. He was not shot, for there was something peculiar about him, half disarming and half intimidating, that inspired one not to shoot him. The man attracted attention as he rode through the dark, cold camp, but he made no indication that he noticed it; he nimbly dismounted from his horse, and tied the beast to a nearby post, and then walked with bare feet into the building where the desperate generals were all very furiously arguing. 

It is now that we should remind all that desperate men are not usually agreeable men, even if they were desperate as a group; these men were a group, yes, but they were not all of a shared mind, and argued bitterly and visibly even in front of their men, who then also took sides. It was an unpleasant time to be in the army.

The man waited in the doorway. Desperate men that they were, and focused only on the dark misery of their end, they did not realize they had been joined. 

Well. 

One of the generals did, the one in the back corner. This man had been spoken over repeatedly and was busy tuning out men who disagreed with him, and his eyes had set to wandering, and only then did he see the powerful, cloaked form standing in the doorway, still. 

“Sir,” the general said, from the back corner. The man looked at him. The man had very dark eyes, under a heavy brow. 

“Men!” The general said, louder, and it was now clear that he had a mysterious accent. Many of the other generals shushed him angrily with a variety of curses, and only then did they look to see why they had shushed this man (who was younger than many of them) - and only then did they look to the doorway. 

“Sir!” said one general, a man called Sullivan, looking offended, “This is a private meeting! Who is your commanding officer, so that I may indicate that you shall be flogged?” 

The man in the doorway did not appear to be threatened or cowed. With the hood of the cloak down, the desperate generals could see the man had dark skin and a shaved head and smooth face which he had set into an expression that might have reminded one of a contemplative piece of stone. 

“I have no commanding officer, sir,” the man in a low, rumbling voice. He reached into his cloak and pulled out a letter - the letter which the generals had sent to the monastery, which was in fact the man’s monastery and, presumably, meant the man was the vicious and bloodthirsty and brilliant war-monk which the generals had desired.

The first general looked at the letter, and his eyes went wide, and he passed it along to the next man, until they were all staring alternatively at the letter and the man, and hissing to each other about the man, as if he was not standing right there. Eventually, the men directed this cacophony of questions at the monk, who might have reminded one more of a statue than a vicious monster.

“Sir,” one general said, eventually, “Where is the rest of your troop?” 

“And your many-bladed weapon?” For this was also a story a man had heard. 

“And your armor made of ancient stones?” 

“Do you require a strategy-board, or an attack dummy, so that you will not unleash your rage upon us?” 

The monk held up a bare, broad hand, and all at once the room was consumed by an unfamiliar quiet, for the desperate men were very terrible at silence, as desperate men usually were. The monk pulled off his leather cloak and held it over his forearm. Underneath, he wore a simple robe of no adornment of any kind, be that medals or armor or embroidery. The robe was wrapped several times with a cord around his waist, which was tied with peculiar knots, and several pouches hung from another leather cord wrapped into the first. The man’s feet and hands were bare despite the cold. There were no weapons, or sheaths to hide them, and no armor, and no callouses or worn fabric to suggest armor was ever worn. 

“I am only all that you see, sirs,” he said, in his voice that could remind a person of oceans, “There is only also my pack, and my horse. I shall not require a strategy-board or an attack dummy.” 

“So you are what the monastery has sent,” said one man, a man called Gates, in a dry voice. “Is this a mockery, that you are one man with no armor and no troops?” 

“I have not been sent, sir,” the monk said, and if he was upset, made no implication of it, “I have come on my own accord. I desire to serve my country and so I shall. If you are not to accept me, make it known and I shall depart. If you are to accept me, indicate where I shall set my tent, and I shall await further orders.” 

This caused a further debate among all the generals, for the monk was another mouth that was to be fed, and it was quite difficult already to manage the mouths of their soldiers. Eventually, one voice was louder than the others, which passed for consent among the group. 

“Sir monk!” Another man, called Greene, said, “You cannot be tenting outside. It is too cold. We have prepared for you a room.” 

(Greene wholly intended to allow the monk to board in his room, for he heard very many noble stories about war-monks, and how they were a sign of truth, honor and peace, and were bloodthirsty in the way that only the heroic, mythical generals of old were, and he would find another place to sleep.) 

“Plus, sir,” Another man, called Lee, added, “We cannot have you wasted on menial tasks such as your lodgings. They will be created for you; we have many maps that we think your genius could be placed towards, and strategy-boards.” 

The monk bowed his head. “Thank you, sir, but I cannot accept. I shall set my tent, and then I shall review men assigned to me, if there are some.” 

“Sir monk, the men have superiors already, and you will be best used here, so that we may make some use of your vast intelligence,” Lee said. 

The monk studied Lee for a moment, and then glanced at each man in turn. His face did not twist or shift, and nor did he impress anything undue or unkind; instead, he only manage to change the weather in the room, as if to paint brewing clouds upon the roof. 

“Sir,” The monk said, “There has been a miscommunication. I shall strive with all my being to resolve it. In an effort to clear any confusion that may arise, I shall ask what you expect of me.” 

There was an anxious sort of rumble reminiscent of thunder, and the desperate generals all looked at one another and began to speak with low murmurs at each other, ignoring the monk again, for the answer to this question was many-pronged and unanswerable. No man, you see, expects a story-tale character to appear out of nowhere and not match all their desires, even if those desires are insensible and contradictory. 

“Well, sir monk,” the man in the back with the accent finally said, “It is only that we are--” 

There were many men who all collectively glared at and shushed the man with the accent, who clearly was not a much-respected general, perhaps owing to the fact he was a rational man. He did not, you see, believe warrior-monks turned into vicious dogs if not given some way to sate their bloodlust. In fact, he had not believed in warrior-monks at all. 

Unlike the monk, the man looked very anxious at many other men looking at him like it was impolite for him to answer for the group. He faltered, for a few moments. But then the monk met his eyes, and it was as if a hand had reached out and stiffened his spine, and then tipped a cool swallow of water into his mouth and down his throat, and made it obvious in some unseen way that the men who ignored him were not worth his anxiety.

The man very suddenly believed in warrior-monks. He took a breath and resumed despite the shushes of desperate generals. 

“We had heard many stories of very dangerous men, of great focus and power, and great wisdom and strategy, who would prefer nothing more than to bathe in the blood of their enemies, and spend long hours in front of a strategy-board, in mighty armor and with incredible weapons.” Men were still glaring at him, but the monk was listening to him, and looking at him. The monk had a very complete way of looking at a man, and the man was not accustomed to being looked at, and even less so in this particular way. It was frightening, but also in some way very inspiring, to be looked at in such a manner. “So it seems we are at somewhat of a loss, sir monk, if you do not desire those things, and mayhap we do not know what you desire; we may submit a request to know what you may expect just as well.” 

There was a peculiar quiet. 

“I shall desire a place to set my tent, sir,” the monk said to the man - and it was clear, from the way he spoke, and his eyes, and something about the room - that he was speaking directly to him, despite the many other men in the room, “And men to lead upon the field of battle, if they can be made available. I do enjoy the strategy board, and the fury of the war-field, but I prefer these in person, and only with the weapons I have displayed, or perhaps my staff, or perhaps my horse.” 

All at once, many men said, “A field general!” Some said so in a manner that suggested they thought quite poorly of field generals, and some said so in a manner that suggested this was a position of great honor and glory. 

“I shall show you to where you may set your tent, sir,” The man in the back said, and he shuffled through the room. “We shall see if we can manage you men to command.” 

“Thank you, sir,” the monk said, and there was the sense of the smile even if his face remained made of stone. He gathered his cloak around him, and they exited. 

** 

The monk learned the man’s name, which was Lafayette, and the man learned the monk’s name, which was Washington. Lafayette spent a great amount of effort in trying to convince the other generals that the monk, Washington, deserved a proper title and men. It was a peculiar and different argument, for Washington had no battle experience, no medals, and no rank save the many knots in the cord that held his robe. He managed no weapon, besides a long wooden staff, and wore no armor. He did not have noble friends. No man had ever seen in battle. And yet Lafayette could not shake the thought that Washington would be a general in which the likes of which had not been seen before.

It did not help, of course, that Lafayette was not a well-liked general, and even though he had allies, they thought it suspicious to wholly support this cause. Many of the generals were long-time friends, and he an outsider, come from an outside country to support a cause that he valued. While he had been in battle, and bravely at that, it did not match up to the many actions the men who did not like him had seen, and they bitterly held this against him in their opposition on his plan. 

** 

One morning, Lafayette woke with a start from an unsettling dream that he could not remember any of. He glanced out his window into the barely-risen sun. It was too late to go back to bed. He stared at his maps, as if the maps would provide him some answer to how badly they were losing, and all the men who were dying, and all the ground they gave up. He did this until he had frustrated himself so badly that he had to resist the urge to scream, lest he wake up the rest of the house. Instead, he dressed himself and put on his waistcoat and jacket and hat and cloak and gloves and boots and wished, very much, that he had a scarf, or an extra jacket, or something to protect his mouth and nose, and maybe some goggles. It was bitterly cold.

The camp was very tired and very cold and very still in the predawn rays of the sun. Lafayette walked through the tents, cursing the cold and Lee and their enemies, and let his mind wander. 

We shall discuss Lafayette as he wanders, to pass the time. Lafayette’s full name was Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, due to a fascination that his mother had with saints, and usually made it quite clear to many individuals why he preferred something different. He was called Lafayette because he had been a noble of some status - the Marquis, in fact, of Lafayette. He had left his country to fight in this war where he had acquired the posting of major general contentiously, for men accused him of only being rich (which he was), but cowardly (which he was not), and something of a glory hound (which he might have been). Lafayette was married to a wife that he loved publicly and unreservedly, and she was in his home country, and he missed her in a way he did not think was possible, much like he had not thought possible there was such a thing as a warrior-monk. 

These details regarding Lafayette were largely irrelevant to the task at hand, and only now we approach a matter of more importance: that Lafayette had a peculiar sense to him he had never been able to properly name. He had, you see, a particular fascination with the male form in the same way a woman might. This desire was not a thing enunciated among the nobles of Lafayette’s homeland, and it represented a significant other reason that he had sought a new country to associate with. Perhaps he would learn more about this urge, which appeared usually in the company of handsome gentlemen that he did not despise. 

(He would never admit to it, of course, but it was a great relief that the urge did not strike him about the generals who wished him ‘misplaced,’ even if they also managed to be handsome.) 

It was not an unpleasant thing, low in his stomach, only mysterious, and he lacked or had not identified the vocabulary for it. 

By this time, our meandering officer had reached near the edge of the camp, for he found himself walking up a small foothill which he knew to have a decently-sized, but safe, river on the other side. It was a very majestic scene, for the sun was just beginning to rise over the hill, turning the snow painfully white and the few bits of visible green in the trees to pure gold. 

This sight, and the sound of the stream, might have cheered Lafayette on it’s own, but the sight was improved by the monk Washington, who was standing on the top of the hill. 

Washington was wearing no shoes and no gloves and no hat, but he did not seem to be bothered by the cold. The sun lit him more magnificently than the scene, if such a thing was possible, outlining him in pure gold as well and giving his dark skin the impression of perfectly cast metal. Gently speaking, Lafayette was struck dumb by it, and this was the reason that he realized only belatedly that the monk was unaccompanied by the usual ripple of his robe; in fact, he was more unadorned than usual - which is to say, completely bare. 

Lafayette felt the kind of shame a man might feel when instinct has overwhelmed his good breeding upon comprehending the full sight which he had stumbled across. The peculiar feeling he got in his stomach around men arose quite viciously and tangled itself tightly in his throat, stomach, and groin. For you see, there could be no doubt even for a second upon viewing Washington’s body that the monk dedicated much of his time to it. Every inch of him was smooth skin covering rippling muscles. 

There was the swell of his biceps, like waves, and perfectly symmetrical; there were his taut forearms, and the muscles visible under skin, shimmering with the sweat of exertion. 

There was the perfectly squared shoulders, effortlessly powerful and masculine, and an elegant neck, which expressed complete strength but still overwhelming grace. There were the pectorals, and their dark nipples, erect from the cold. 

There was the chiseled stomach, perfect peaks and valleys of dark flesh. The visible strength of the hips, the perfect round of his glutes - the sheer size of his thighs, thick and shifting, seeming barely restrained by flesh. 

Every point and inch of him was carefully built, as if he had been carved, and then animated. Lafayette hoped, in the idle, distant manner that those struck dumb think, that he was not going to be struck blind because he had viewed something mortals were not permitted to view. 

Washington was going through some sort of routine in the snow. He would select some strenuous position, flexing arms and legs and stomach and back, and then he would hold it until his muscles visibly shook from the strain, and then he would return to rest. He stood on one hand, and on his toes, and on one foot, and leaned on his side, and contorted himself in astonishing ways. He accomplished this without a sound that Lafayette could hear from his distance. 

(A very small part of Lafayette thought he should indicate his presence, and a smaller part of him thought to flee, but it should be noted that the vast majority of Lafayette was utterly thoughtless and transfixed, held hostage as securely as he had been shackled.) 

After much of this, Washington’s poses eased - he held out his hands, palms up, or wrapped his arms around him and faced the sun as if the rays of it hugged him. Then he sat in the snow, still nude, and crossed his legs one over another, and placed his palms on his knees, and went completely still. 

The sun had now risen more properly, and it cast the monk in a pure white daylight, and he seemed to be carved from a single flawless stone. 

Lafayette’s throat worked as if he had just been unleashed from some stasis. He thought he ought to say something, but he seemed to have a peculiar situation in which he had forgotten how to form any words. He thought, more solidly, about fleeing before he was acknowledged. 

“General,” said Washington, still looking away from him. Lafayette would later be very glad no one had seen the face he had made upon realizing he had been discovered in his peeping. 

“Sir monk,” he croaked, and took three steps towards the other man, the first the most hesitant, “Are you not… cold?” 

“No,” said Washington. 

“But, sir, there is a bitter wind, and it is winter.” 

“Perhaps,” said Washington. 

Lafayette was more sensible now, and he frowned at the gleaming, extraordinary bare back which was presented to him. He had become accustomed to these sorts of answers from the monk, but he did not enjoy them. He stood next to the sitting Washington and stared at the sun. 

“Your routine was extraordinary,” he said, or at least some rebellious, rude part of him said. Most of him was grandly offended that he had admitted to watching, and this part of him made a variety of mental complaints. 

“Morning exercises are essential.” 

In a moment that might have abrupt for any man sans Washington, the monk stood and gathered a weather tarp with his belongings that Lafayette had not noticed until this moment. 

“Could I beg a favor of you, general?” Washington asked. 

(Later Lafayette would spend much time cursing himself in front of his mirror for acting like a fool, so agog he was with Washington’s form, slick with sweat, perfectly built and shining in the winter sun. You see, it took him a very long time to answer this question, and in this time he stared, rudely, as if baffled that something this otherworldly could acknowledge him.) 

“Of course, sir monk,” he managed, finally, in a voice somewhat reminiscent of a boy of fourteen. 

“Thank you, general,” Washington said, and he draped his robe as well as a towel over Lafayette’s shoulder, and handed him his staff, and then carefully had him take the weather tarp as to only touch the dry side. Lafayette, as he seemed to do mostly in this event, stared at him puzzledly. “Please take these to the edge of the river, down the hill.” 

Then Washington turned and began to walk down the other side of the hill, and Lafayette heard a soft splash. 

“Washington!” Lafayette yelled, startled from his trance by the thought of discovering the man’s body, blue with ice. He ran to the riverbank, carrying the items, and made another expression he was glad to keep secret, only to see the monk pull himself from the river looking perfectly fine. 

(Better than perfectly fine, Lafayette’s peculiar sense added, for the clear water gave him a gleam that marked the complete sculptedness of his body quite well.)

“General,” said Washington, walking over to him, with the sense of a smile. Washington never smiled, but rather somehow impressed the thought of a smile, as if it was hiding just behind you, and would stick close to you when you turned around to look for it. He seemed completely unashamed of his nakedness and the wondrous beauty of his body, and did not acknowledge Lafayette’s re-dumbstruck face as he gathered his items: first the towel, which he used to dry himself off, thought it was not likely to be that thorough, especially in comparison to the bitter cold with the occasional sharp breeze. Then, he took his robe out of Lafayette’s arms and wrapped it around himself, swiftly tying the little ties that held the two sides of it together. Then, he took the belt and the string of pouches, both of which he tied around his waist. Last the staff, which he wrapped his arm around and held loosely. 

He bowed to Lafayette. “Thank you.” 

Lafayette bowed back, because did not know what else to do. 

“Do you have further errands, general? Would it be your wish to accompany me back to my tent?” 

“That is perfect use of my time,” Lafayette said, perhaps a little too quickly, for even though the man was now dressed, he was having some trouble removing the thought of the monk’s bare body from the front of his brain. It reminded him somewhat of being too drunk, and then attempting to sober oneself up with discipline alone, which always seemed to fail. He thought, if Washington drank (of which, of course, he abstained), he would be able to do such a thing. 

“As mine,” Washington said, and they began to walk through the camp, where men were more thoroughly going about their business with the day having started more officially. General Lafayette and the monk Washington (his exact title was somewhat of a mystery, though he clearly carried himself above mister) was a familiar sight on these kinds of walks, and they were ignored, aside from the salutes of the men. 

Washington’s tent was as austere as the rest of him, with no furniture aside from a flat board that kept his bedding, a scant blanket or two, above the tent floor. He had only another small piece of wood that served as a writing desk upon his lap, other writing equipment of low quality, and a few candles. It was quite a difference from Lafayette’s room, which was stuffed with books, military items such as his maps and his voluminous correspondence, pens and papers and various clothes, and many other such things that had been thrown in frustration many times. 

Washington sat down on his bedding and folded his legs; Lafayette stared down at him, wondering if his awkwardness was showing upon his face (which it was). There was a great difference that he felt upon being around the monk than with the other generals, or even his men - a sort of envious admiration without bite. It was not that he was mad that Washington seemed so noble and resolute and powerful in his way of great restraint, only that part of him ached to understand how it could be done, so he could do it, and all at once knowing that the monk’s life could not be easy, or simple, and would not suite a general with a war. Yet, also Washington aspired to generalship, and would be the most magnificent general of their army. 

“Unburden yourself of your troubles,” Washington said, gently, looking up at him. The monk shifted on his bed palette, and, sighing, Lafayette lowered himself to it, spreading out his legs in front of him and staring at them. 

“I merely apologize that I must be….. desperately inadequate company,” he said, to his boots, more honestly than he had intended. “I only feel as if you have so masterfully understood yourself, and I am, in honest terms, disastrous.” 

Washington turned his head and looked at Lafayette, and Lafayette again felt desperately inadequate. There were many parts of himself that he did not understand. He did not imagine that Washington was as very confused by his senses, or knots in his throat, or pits in his stomach, as he was. 

“You are extraordinary company, general,” Washington said, and he turned his entire body to face Lafayette. “And there is no shame in the quest to understand oneself. The first step is to acknowledge your ignorance. Only when we are aware that there is more to know, do we permit ourselves to learn it.” 

Lafayette sighed. Even the company of the monk, who he admired with every fiber of his being, was not bringing up his very low spirits. 

“Knowledge of the self starts with the breath,” Washington said, and had he been anyone else, Lafayette would have snapped at him, for he had dulled himself into the sort of mood where he urged everyone else to be quiet, so he could consider his own low self-worth in silence. Either ignorant or not acknowledging of Lafayette’s thoughts, Washington stood in the bare floor of the tent, looking at the general, who stood as well, because he felt obligated to do so. 

“To know one’s breathing is to know oneself, for the breath is as thorough as the blood, and is drawn in and managed to all parts of the body, and then exuded. It is the easiest way to manage one’s senses - to draw sights and sounds in, and consider them, and manage their use - and then to remove them.” 

Washington raised one of his dark hands and presses it to Lafayette’s chest, above his heart. Lafayette felt as if he had swallowed a large ball of twine, which had become hopelessly tangled in his insides. The hand was warm, despite the weather, rough with hard work, and very large. Lafayette experienced thoughts as tangled as his stomach, and peculiarly wanted to hold the hand, which he did not in any way understand, and in fact felt very foolish about. 

“Now,” Washington said, as if Lafayette was not making a very dumbfounded and confused face, “When I breathe in, so shall you. And we shall wait--” And here he tapped his fingers, thumb to pinky finger, one at a time, against Lafayette’s chest, strangely rhythmic, “--and then breathe out. And then we shall wait again--” and he tapped his fingers the other way, pinky finger to thumb, “--and breathe in again. Do you understand?” 

Lafayette nodded, because he did not trust himself to speak. They were standing very close, and Washington’s hand was very warm, and Lafayette’s thoughts were very muddled, as if he had spent too much time in the summer sun. 

They completed this exercise perhaps fifteen times, and at the end Lafayette felt significantly less upset, and an unfamiliar calm had settled upon him. It was a strange way to be, but not unpleasant. Distant, in the way, Lafayette thought, in that it was better to view a battle from a cliffside than in the thick of gunshots and bayonets. 

** 

Lafayette went to see General Lee. We may have implied, earlier, that Lee was an unpleasant character, which was not entirely true. There were many men that liked Lee very much, and he had many positive qualities which made him an approachable and charismatic character. Lee was of good breeding, from a good family, that had many generations of experience upon the lands, and he himself was a man of many military actions. When he was not being a general, he enjoyed breeding and racing dogs, a true gentleman's hobby, and balls and dances, and chess. He entertained the company of many reputable families. 

It was that Lee was a very cautious character, especially as a general, and this caused him to be disliked by some military men. This was not a bad trait entirely, per se, for there were some opportunities where he and and many other men would have been captured if Lee had not made the command to retreat, but there were also other times when they might have been victorious, if they had been rallied instead. 

It was perfectly within Lee’s nature that he would be opposed to a young, rich, foreign nobleman with little combat experience or a tall and otherworldly man who wore no armor and carried no weapon and was not up to the expectations of the myth that had caused him to appear, more or less, out of nowhere. And one could not truly fault him for either of these things, for it was not an uncommon opinion to prefer generals that had much military experience, and good, strong family names. 

So Lee was not excited, when Lafayette requested his audience. Lee thought Lafayette a terrible bother, and worse, despised his accent. This was very adequate for Lafayette, who thought Lee at best narrow-minded and at worst a coward. 

“General,” Lafayette said, and he very much wished Washington was there, for Washington made him feel like a much stronger creature. But he was not, and he would have to manage without him, “Send me to the front, with the monk.” 

Lee looked up from his desk, from where he was writing orders. “I beg your pardon, sir?” 

“I have resolved your problem,” Lafayette said, which both men thought very amusing, to reasons related that both thought the other was incompetent and the reason for their losing. “You shall send me to the men, and assign the monk to me. Then, if he is a disaster, you shall be able to blame me for it, and in the meantime, I shall not be here to oppose you.” 

Lee narrowed his eyes, because like all men of his age, he was deeply suspicious of things that seemed too good to be true. These things - to have both the monk and the gloryhound foreigner away from his office - were things he desired very much. But he was very tired and very desperate and very haggard, and if men he disliked were going to cast themselves away from him, he would agree, and many men would likely do the same.

“That sounds perfect, General Lafayette,” Lee said, and he reached for a piece of paper and scrawled the order and applied his seal. “There, I have assigned for you to go to the front. As soon as you’d like would be adequate.” 

“Thank you, General,” Lafayette said, taking the order, and barely two days from then did the monk and the young foreign general set out. Each morning they awoke before dawn to do exercises, Lafayette’s less intense than Washington’s, and each morning they counted their breaths, and each morning Lafayette looked at his travelling companion and wondered what about the monk caused him to feel so hopeful and warm and confused, like a grapevine in a greenhouse. 

** 

 

They were in the thick of the battle, and losing, and quite viciously at that, and men were dying and spilling blood and screaming and stepping back - not quite retreating, but so close that it might have been called that. There were gunshots and bayonets everywhere, and the deep misery of the near-surrendered. Lafayette thought that perhaps Lee was right, and retreating was most advisable, and he began to construct the order in his head when a sharp wind picked up next to him, and there was the brush of fabric, and then before he could complain, the monk was rushing into and in front of the retreating men, and roaring at the top of his lungs. 

It was the most extraordinary thing Lafayette had ever seen. Washington smashed into the enemy lines like a wave, staggering and confusing them. He was a blur of rippling cloth and the hard sides of his staff, bare feet and the palms of his hands and even his head, and the whole time shouting inarticulately. There was something completely and utterly monstrous about it, like a story about a beast Lafayette had read as a child. It was nothing like the perfectly restrained creature that Lafayette had come to know, even if he had always had the sense that Washington’s admirable and complete restraint disguised some great temper. 

This was the temper, and it was a marvelous and horrifying thing to view. 

The temper was fury and lightning and crashing storms and hurricanes. The temper was the staff crushing throats and feet cracking bone. The fury was the whirring robe and and the thud of palms against flesh. The crashing storm was spurting blood and surprised wails and the complete and astonishing dissolution of the enemy lines. The hurricane was the all-encompassing magnificent catastrophe of it, the roaring wind the monk’s terrible, inhumane screams. 

Lafayette was shackled, not only by terror, but by awe, as if the monk was an angel of vengeance, sent to carry out the lord’s will and smite down their enemies. 

The general took a breath. 

Tapped his fingers against his heart. 

One, two, three, four, five. 

Breathed out. Felt distance, but not in a terrible way. 

“Forward!” He screamed, and managed his horse, and drew his sabre, and forced himself towards the battle like a shot out of a cannon. It was very lucky for Lafayette and Washington that Lafayette had assigned himself to good men and good soldiers, despite their low morale of losing, and they obeyed a rallying cry despite the unleashed terror of the warrior-monk in their midst. 

The enemy was surprised and terrified and taken-aback, and they knew nothing of what to do next, and their officers stared in confusion at each other. None of them had been trained in how to handle some gunless vicious beast that broke necks and stopped hearts with the point of an elbow. No strategy book had accounted for the screaming whirl of a tornado landing directly onto their men, most of which were not well-trained or bright. 

The soldiers broke rank and ran, and the monk followed them, tripping them with the staff and stomping on their skulls; when they turned to shoot him, he ducked or shifted without effort; when they wished to bayonet him, he pushed the whole weapon aside, completely unafraid, and brought his full fury on any man who thought they could challenge him. The officers were not accustomed to losing, of which they clearly and suddenly were, and they did what any sensible officers did in this case, which was to retreat. They had not retreated in some time, and certainly not under such auspicious circumstances. 

“Washington!” Lafayette shouted, for the monk did not withdraw with most of the troops, but rather pursued the retreating enemies. “Sir monk!” 

The monk went completely still. 

(Lafayette thought him to be terribly, horribly similar to a cobra which he had been bitten by as a child, for the creature had raised it’s upper half up and gone very still, hood spread, and the much smaller Lafayette had frozen in terrible, horrible fear of some future, which promptly realized itself as the fangs of the snake sunk into his arm. The creature had not been poisonous, but it had been a very painful wound, and our current adult Lafayette still carried with him a secret terror of snakes.) 

Washington was immediately upon him, for the soldiers had quite quickly broken rank to avoid being anywhere near the monk. 

“Sir monk!” He said, with all the soldiers looking in the other direction and pretending that both their officer and his companion were not there at all. Washington was a terrifying thing, covered in blood that he was, dark and heaving, eyes wild, and Lafayette found that he was not only completely petrified but also astonished by the beauty of such a thing, that in so many ways this man was the embodiment of the war they all dreamed of, noble and powerful and deadly and strong. Vicious and violent, and yet in every way above the bare beast that was the human ape. 

Lafayette sucked in a breath and took one and then a second step forward, peculiarly desirous of this incredible and wonderful and too intense thing, and then he was close enough to smell the copper and iron of blood, and the salt of sweat, and hear the panting breaths that pressed in wild abandon from the monk’s lungs.

“Breathe with me, sir,” he said, and without thinking he pressed his hand against Washington’s chest, feeling the heaving, strong muscles and the wet warmth of the blood the monk was covered in. Lafayette took a breath and Washington echoed him, and Lafayette tapped his fingers, thumb first to pinky finger, and then released it, and Washington echoed him. 

The monk blinked, and suddenly shifted, and looked at Lafayette as completely as might he have done if the immediately preceding events had not occurred. 

“General,” said Washington, softly, in his voice like an ocean. Things unknown lurked in the ocean, so deep and mysterious and beautiful and terrifying. 

“We must return to camp. There is much to discuss,” Lafayette said, trying to steady his own breath and failing, for he had so promptly forgotten his calm when Washington spoke, but found he could not remember how to count. There was also the matter that he had not moved, and felt again transfixed by the overwhelming intensity of the monk. There were likely things to discuss although he had forgotten them, and could think only of the bloody and incredible man that he still had his hand pressed against, who was very warm and alive even wet and in the freezing weather. 

You see, his heart had very quickly began to pound again despite his attempt at calm, and for very sensible reasons. He was still very excited from the battle, and more so that they had won, and he had forgotten how good it was to win. There was the complete unexpectedness of the events of the battle, and the breathless awe and incredible fear of the monk that he thought of as his friend. There was the horrifying and rapturous sense of the man approaching him. And now the peculiar success, that he had used his sense to withdraw the man he knew from the beast within. 

Later on, he would feel very bad about his future actions, but any man would say it safe to say that Lafayette was in no way thinking clearly, and made worse by his familiar and unusual unsettled sense that Washington evoked, and without thinking he wrapped both of his hands in the bloody robe and pushed up on his toes to kiss the monk, who wrapped his bloody, broad arms around Lafayette and kissed him back with the fury and passion that he had only just recently displayed.

(The soldiers, who were pretending that the monk had not strode up to their general looking like he was going to rend him to pieces, continued to pretend that no events of note were occurring between the two men. You see, they were very good soldiers, and they very much liked General Lafayette, and there had been many secret bets about this very event, to which a fair number of the soldiers had won or lost money and were all personally absorbed in their sadness or joy at their respective bets.)

*

They did, after the kiss, make it back to the camp, where they discussed the battle and the future. They did not discuss the kiss, because Lafayette did not want to discuss the kiss, and Washington saw this quite evidently upon him. This did not, however, stop the monk from waking the general even earlier than usual, in a new robe, for their exercises. Lafayette rolled over on his bed and groaned, because he did not want to spend any time alone with Washington, still ashamed of his behavior. 

Washington stood in his tent-entrance with his familiar patience.

“I have shamed you, sir monk,” Lafayette said, sitting up in his bed and looking very upset indeed.

“You have not, general,” Washington said, and then stepped inside the tent and closed the flaps. He sat in Lafayette’s desk chair, and held a thoughtful, silent moment. “I might inquire why your passion is more monstrous than mine?” 

“War is noble, sir,” Lafayette said, as if this was obvious.

“Passion is noble, too, general,” Washington said, as if this was also obvious. Lafayette obviously did not think so, as indicated by the confused expression on his face when they met eyes. In truth, Lafayette had never matched this particular word with his peculiar feelings, and he experienced the sense that a man had when knew something he did not altogether enjoy was completely correct. 

Washington gave Lafayette the sense of a smile that Lafayette had become familiar with. He stood from the chair. 

“One cannot allow confusion or mist to disturb one’s routine,” Washington said, and he took the few steps towards the doorflaps of the tent. “There can be no mornings when exercises are not performed. Only with routine does one improve, does one learn more of themself, and learn to control whatever they may find - be it rage or passion. Although I can say with confidence a teacher in such control is not an unfortunate addition.” 

Lafayette parsed this very slowly, and only then he did finally stand from his bed, and begin to dress himself. “Sir monk,” he said, putting on his jacket and wrapping his neckcloth, “I do not understand.” 

“Exercises first, and then breathing,” Washington said, and he untied the flaps to the tent and held the door open, to another very bright and very cold day, “And then perhaps if there is time, we may discuss ourselves, and our passion and our rage, and learn more in the process of it.” 

Lafayette took a breath and counted in his head. Released. A sense of calm came over him. His confusion about his feelings, he thought, seemed less terrible. He would read it, he decided, as if it was a book of sums, and only at the end were simple results. 

“You will not be bored by my confused rambling?” Lafayette said, when they stood some way outside the camp. 

“I could listen for hours to your voice, general,” Washington said, and he shed his robe, as he always did for their routine. “And I would be much more at peace with myself at the end than at the beginning, and I suspect that you shall be, too.” 

Lafayette stared at the still-dark sky, and the snow, and his friend. “Perhaps I shall be,” he said, and he held his arms out in their first position, and let his thoughts and his stomach unravel. He saw the beginning of the terrible knot that was his feelings, and mentally reached for it, and began the process of untangling.


End file.
